Who the fuck writes about the GAA of these days and expects to be taken seriously?
Here's a proper tale:
I played for my school, De La Salle. We made it to the all-Ireland school-boy finals and were told we'd be playing in Croke Park. This was a very big deal and RTE sent Marian Finucane out with the OB unit to meet us and talk about the GAA in Ballyfermot. I was picked for the interview along with two other lads because we didn't have the typical Ballyer accent. It was a buzz, we met her in the brother's house front parlour (rather luxurious too) while outside stood the run-down rat-infested, piss-stinking prefabs we attended five days a week including winters that'd piss off a brass monkey's testicle doctor.
She smoked like a trooper, as soon as one was halfway down, she'd spark up another. There was a cloud around her. Her voice boomed around the old room, she sounded like she was talking through a small PA system even though she was sitting alone at the head brother's desk with a mic overhead for her and another for the three of us. She asked about the struggle of making it to the final. It was football, we didn't really have any choice, I was picked because I was already six feet tall. Plus I played for Ballyfermot Utd who trained on The Lawns park nearby the school, St John's College. We had a GAA pitch on the grounds that doubled for occasional soccer matches but soccer wasn't pushed on us, the GAA very much was.
I remember mentioning that the worst part of playing for the school team was that our gear was rarely washed, and stank of stale sweat, Raljax muscle relaxant, piss, and fuck only knows what else. Vest only underneath, no t-shirts allowed. The socks were usually stiff from being taken off after the game, rammed into a black plastic bag while still soggy, and tied up tight and hung from a hook in the shed we changed in before going out to get our shins bruised, shoulders cracked, head kicked, and balls always protected by either a hand or else the right leg, hovering up and down in caution lest your opponent take a swing at your nuts.
Finucane was cracking up at the story, but the head brother Brendan Crow was staring at me like he wanted to kill me.
I knew I was in trouble when when wagged his pointed finger at me.
So I tried to think of anything else a bit more complimentary to say.
I mentioned then that I thought the teachers and brothers were great lads for training us so well.
He looked a bit more relaxed and I knew that got me mostly off the hook.
The show was broadcast the following Saturday afternoon when the English soccer results came in.
I missed it completely due to incorrect information about the timing of the RTE radio show, but the following Monday they had a cassette tape.
They played it one class after another, which broke up the day nicely and everyone was amused by my comments about the stinky strip we had to wear.
In fact, some of the teachers were eyeballing me in a new way: not anger or violent intent, as I was more familiar with.
After this I started getting asked to more and more sporting events: the rugby, soccer, and even swimming competitions at the local pool.
But by then sport wasn't my bag: I was hooked on art and music, two things they didn't cater for.
When I say cater for, I mean things you got clattered around for, like bringing my sticks to school and practicing my rudiments in the smoking room.
Yes, we had a smoking room: we were average age of fourteen, and the seniors as old as seventeen.
Smoking was common, teachers smoked in class, in the yard, on the fields, in the gym hall.
Plus I was playing cricket every summer holiday with a team we assembled from the streets: an upper Ballyer shower had their team, we often played off.
Then I did a trial with the Phoenix cricket team: I had a well-trained right arm, and my bowling skills were exceptional.
Cricket was considered a traitor's game, so when the school found out I was booted off the GAA team, I left Ballyer Utd soccer team, and played cricket.
By the way, when they said we'd be playing at Croke Park, they meant AT Croke Park. The two spare GAA pitches that used to be behind the Hogan Stand. Not the actual pitch, which was/is hallowed ground to the Irish. No seats, just your regular wet muck and still-wet white lines painted in just before we hit the pitch for warm-up. We lost the game. I didn't even get to play. I was a sub, and they kept the regular core-team on the field for the entirety, and even when we were clearly losing, they didn't change anyone. My last game with Ballyer was out on a field in Kimmage. We played Crumlin, I think they were Sundrive Road, not sure. Anyway, their pitch was next to an abattoir, and the fucking smell that hit me made me gag. I was spitting all morning, gripping my nose with two fingers wrapped in my jersey, but the stench was seeping in through my skin. Rotten. Utterly puke-inducing stuff. I knew that was it for me, and I went to see the captain the following week and told him I was quitting. Nice bloke, he encouraged me with the drums and wished me well. Same with art. Nobody mentioned my writing, but that's another story.
Fuck the GAA: they have a shadow as long as Jambo's face when the offie's run out of slabs of Dutch Gold.
Soccer wasn't much better, but at least you weren't slapped and thumped and kicked into line with them.
Then my kid brother showed his form: everyone stopped dead in their tracks when they saw him out on the field warming up.
Grace, poise, perfect balance, speed, agility, accuracy, cool, in control, supreme confidence, a great sense of humour too: he was a ballet dancer on mud.
He joined all the same teams I'd played for but then got a transfer offer to play with Belvedere on the north side.
From there the Ireland juniors, then trials in the UK before heading to Rhode Island for a year on an athletic scholarship.
Then back to Ireland the Ireland under 21s (five caps) and he turned down offers from Dundee, Millwall, and Southampton.
Great player, total commitment, absolute dedication, he still moves like he did thirty years ago.
Plus he's something of a rock star, a celebrity, well known all over Ballyer.
As are we all.
Which was nice.
